


The Perils - and Blessings - of Age

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He manages to roll onto his side, but that sends pain coursing down the big muscle on the outside of hip and ow ow ow, okay, no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perils - and Blessings - of Age

John's too winded to even think about anything but the crazy mosaics the Ancients put on the ceiling -- Jackson Pollock on some trippy kind of acid, he thinks, with colors not supposed to be in a place with such beautiful wood floors and a light, glowing airiness, and suddenly he's wondering about his own lucidity -- so he completely misses it when Teyla slips away from the gym. It's only about five or ten or possibly even fifteen minutes later when he's starting to get chilled and desperately wants a manly, very-not-humiliating hand up that he realizes he's alone in the room.

"Well, fuck," he says to empty air.

It's possible he's wrenched his back. He's not sure, entirely. Teyla had done some very cool move that flipped him over like he was as flexible as she was, John coming down hard on his right foot, a streak of pain going all the way up to the back of his neck. She'd hesitated for almost a half a second once he was on his feet; something about the level of _ow_ in his cry of reaction, probably, but he'd waved her off and away they went.

Now he's bruised and aching so badly he can't even identify where the pain is coming from. And he's shivering. Jesus, he hopes none of his marines wander in. It's not like they don't know he spars with Teyla and Ronon on a regular basis, a fact that inspires awe and increased respect from his men. Granted, they respect him because they know he's getting the _shit_ kicked out of him, but hey. Respect. Awe. These are things a military commander with an ego - never verbally acknowledged but it's so there - can't take lightly.

He manages to roll onto his side, but that sends pain coursing down the big muscle on the outside of hip and ow ow ow, okay, no.

"You look like a turtle." The door hisses shut with that extra oof of displaced air pressure that means it's locked. "Or maybe a beetle. One of those things that freaks out when you put it on its back; I don't know, I was never good at biology."

Perfect. John can't move his arms without wishing his shoulders were attached to someone else, but he still manages to clap a hand over his eyes. McKay's not going to let him forget this for _weeks_. He's been going on and on about John's increased fragility, lately, and how John needs to be a little more cognizant of his advancing age because no one lives forever, not even flyboys with no sense of self-preservation and a martyr habit that Rodney's working tirelessly to help kick, and this? This is icing on a very big, very nagging cake.

If he stays still long enough, he might actually go into shock and die just from lying here on a too cold, too hard floor. It's something to shoot for, anyway.

Except Rodney's not nagging him. In fact, Rodney hasn't said anything at all since his initial 'greeting', just rustling this and that and making an odd humming sound. Chopin, John identifies. One of the lighter sonatas and -

And he really, really hates his life.

"I'm moving you to the left. Try not to tense up."

John has a moment to think _what the hell_ before he's rolled, as gently as no one ever expects Rodney to be. He's balanced on his left side for a few moments and has to concentrate on his breathing, on Rodney's hand warm and a little too tight around his shoulder, because if not he's going to give in to the white streaks of pain that are blinding him. Something hard butts up against him from crown to heel and it's only when he's rolled flat again - blessed, blessed flatness - that John realizes what it is.

A mat. Not one of the regular mats that are stacked in a corner, the ones that Teyla always looks cross-eyed at whenever he suggests something a little softer than wood floors. No, this is one of those special mats that the infirmary team brought and it's soft and yielding like one of those freaking Temperpedic mattresses that never actually work, but this one does and it's _warm_.

Sweet, sweet heat washing over abused muscles, convincing twanged nerves to un-tense enough that the pain fades towards a more familiar ache, centered around the back muscle that always goes every time he does this, the one he always forgets about until it's a fireball of ouch and he starts thinking longingly of extraction.

He possibly makes a noise. A whimpery kind of noise that breaks in the middle. He's not saying he did, though. Not at all.

"Better?" Rodney sounds very smug as he leans over John's body, eyes shifting restlessly as he makes minute adjustments.

John makes another noise. This one is intentional, if not less intelligible, and above him Rodney snorts.

"Baby," is his totally unfair label of a man with genuine pain issues.

But John doesn't say anything. He's got heat working soft and persistent against his spine, melting him into material that provides perfect support. He's also got Rodney, carefully arranging himself along John's side amidst complaints that he doesn't know why John never does this for _him_ when _he's_ in pain and that his back has been a lot worse for a lot longer than John's!

Two pills are placed in his mouth, a straw aiding the swallowing therein, and then there's a head solid and hotter than the waves of heat coming up from behind him and heavy in a way that nothing can ever duplicate lying on his chest, while strong fingers - blunt and pudgy to mask their grace - rub circles on his opposite arm.

"Ow," John says.

"Yeah, yeah. You're such a girl, Sheppard," Rodney mutters and his hands tightens until it's just moments from pain, the absolute perfect pressure, and together they both breathe for a while.


End file.
